And then I waited for Finn.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
FINN HAD STUCK his room key in his wallet when they left for the Academy Awards. Even then, with Bonnie’s hand on his arm, with her cheeks still flushed from the kiss he’d pressed against her neck, with the scent of her on his lips, he’d been afraid they wouldn’t come back. His dad was right. He’d expected the worst, he’d mentally planned for it.
In the limo she’d talked about spending two weeks at the Bordeaux. She told him it would be a true honeymoon. Making plans and making bacon, she’d said. They wouldn’t go anywhere—except maybe shopping. But not at Walmart. Not again. He’d told her he didn’t care where they went shopping, as long as she kept the red boots and wore them often. Even if she wore nothing else. She told him she would wear them every day for the rest of her life if it made him happy. And secretly, maybe even subconsciously, he hadn’t believed her. He had known it was going to end.
His dad had taken him to the hotel and told Finn that he was a phone call away. Finn hadn’t been stopped or questioned as he’d walked into the posh entrance and headed directly for the elevator. Hope bloomed when his key took him straight to the penthouse floor.
Fear was a hard habit to break, and hope hurt, but it hurt in a way that promised a happy ending. So he stood, outside the door of the room he and Bonnie had occupied—Room 704—and waited a full five minutes, feeling the pain of that hope, not wanting to exchange it for the pain of despair. Then he took a deep breath and stuck the key into the slot. When the locks disengaged with a sleek buzz, his heart hitched, and he pushed the handle down and opened the door.
Bedding was piled on the floor, like housekeeping was in the middle of a thorough clean. The TV was on, blaring, and Finn searched the space, walking farther into the suite, climbing the platform that housed the huge bed beneath a ceiling of mirrors. He’d watched Bonnie in those mirrors, worshipped her. Even as she’d slept, feathers in her hair, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes away from her face, from the way she’d looked curled next to him, from the image of them together in that way. Perfect, untouchable.
There was no sign of Bonnie. She hadn’t called out when he entered the room or come running to see who was there. The euphoria of a working keycard plummeted and pooled like tar in his belly. He felt sick. He walked to the TV, needing to silence it, to soak up what was left of them in the space, and he saw himself, wearing the tux he now wore. He was smiling down at Bonnie and she was beaming up at him like they weren’t surrounded by flashing cameras and shocked faces. They’d made their statement, all right. He could see the stunned fascination wherever he looked. Bonnie had waved and glowed, laughed and blown kisses to fans who were seated in makeshift bleachers in designated areas for a small number of diehard stargazers.
The screen split, showing the continuing footage from the awards, as well as the news anchor seated on the Entertainment Buzz set, wearing a sleeveless top that showed off her toned arms and her fake tan. She was talking into the camera with the practiced sobriety and professional cadence of a serious journalist, and as the picture on the screen morphed from footage of him and Bonnie Rae into an old black and white photo of Bonnie and Clyde, she began to tell their story, as if it were breaking news and hadn’t happened 85 years before.
Bonnie Parker met Clyde Barrow in Texas, in January of 1930. It was the height of the depression and people were poor, desperate, and hopeless, and Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow were no exception. Clyde was twenty years old, Bonnie, nineteen, and though neither had much to offer the other, they became inseparable . . .
Clyde listened, unable to look away, to turn it off. He listened as the reporter compared them to the outlaw couple, twisting their story until it was almost unrecognizable. He listened until the reporter shook her head sadly and asked, “What happened to Bonnie Rae Shelby?”
Then he couldn’t take anymore. Maybe because he didn’t know what had happened to her. He didn’t know where she was, and he didn’t know where to go looking. How was he going to find her? He switched off the TV with a violent shove and turned to leave. He was striding toward the door when he thought he heard the sound of water running. He stopped abruptly, suspended between the fear of being caught in a place he shouldn’t be and the hope that finally he was in exactly the right place at the right time. It was the shower. And in that instant he became a believer. God’s voice did sound like rushing water.
Finn walked toward the huge bathroom with the heart-shaped, sunken tub and the giant, glass walk-in shower. When he neared the door he heard her, and he smiled, even as his chest ached at the sound. Crying. She was crying in the shower. Again. And Finn found himself laughing through the tears that were suddenly streaming down his own face.
The door wasn’t locked. Thank God. Or thank Fish—his guardian angel. Somehow he thought Fish might be the one unlocking bathroom doors for his brother. Naked girls were Fish’s favorite thing. He turned the handle and silently asked Fish to please remain outside if he was still lurking around. He needed to hold his wife without an audience.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the vanity as he pulled open the shower door and stepped under the spray fully-clothed, taking Bonnie into his arms before she even had time to react. She jerked and pulled back, even as she realized it was him.
“Finn? Oh, Finn,” she cried, falling against him, holding him tightly and looking up into his face in disbelief. He pushed her streaming hair out of her eyes even as his own dripped heavily down his back.